Three stones
by Quecksilver Eyes
Summary: Some say, they came with the storm, centuries ago, when there were no cars and no steam powered machines, when all this country had was the sea. Some say, the girl with the ever changing hair and the curious eyes cannot belong to this world, when she sits at the edge of the cliffs, dangling her feet into the cold water, staring at the horizon, as if there was something there, somet


_První kámen bílý, s její dlaní srůstá_  
 _Druhý kámen rudý, zamyká jí ústa_  
 _Třetí kámen černý, ten jí v srdci zůstal_  
 _A v tom třetím kameni, sama navždy zkamení_

 _(The first stone, white, is growing into her palm_  
 _The second stone, red, is locking her mouth_  
 _The third stone, black, has remained in her heart_  
 _And in that third stone she herself will turn into stone forever)_

 _Malá Morská Víla (1976), Píseň o kameni_

Some say, they came with the storm, centuries ago, when there were no cars and no steam powered machines, when all this country had was the sea. Some say, the girl with the ever changing hair and the curious eyes cannot belong to this world, when she sits at the edge of the cliffs, dangling her feet into the cold water, staring at the horizon, as if there was something there, something important and valuable and once hers. She watches the sun sink into the ocean at the end of each day, from the same spot, unmoving. And every day, ever since they can remember, the other girl joins her once the sun has gone down, stroking her curls, once blue, once brown, once black, once green, ever changing, and they sit there, looking at the sea until the man who is barely a man steps outside the small house and puts his hands on their backs. "Come in", he says. "And have dinner with me, _mine elskede pigers_."

And, like clockwork, like breathing, the second girl rises ("What's your name?", they asked her once, when those three were still new and when they were still curious. "And what is hers?" The girl smiled, bowed her head and put the book she was reading aside. "My name is Miroslava", she said. "My darling doesn't mind being called whatever you may think is fitting."), lends her companion, her darling, her _drahá_ , a hand and helps her get up. She kisses her forehead and the curious girl, the mute girl ("What do you call her, then, if it's all the same to her?", they asked the man, who introduced himself as Friedrich. The man blinks, smiles jovially and offers them a glass of wine. "I call her many things, gentlemen", he says, as he puts the cork back into the bottle. "Pet names, mostly, endearments. What kind of husband would I be if I didn't find a name fitting for my girls?" They nod and drink with him and as they rise to leave, Friedrich stops them with a gesture of his hand. "But the name I call her the most, and the one she surely likes best, whether in my mother's tongue or my wife's, is _lille havfrue_." He lifts his glass. " _Prost_ , gentlemen.") allows her to pull her to her feet and smiles.

She has many names, the mute girl who dotes on her companions. Miroslava calls her _malá mořská víla_ , in a hushed voice, whispers it into her ears when they go into town to buy fabric, soft and light, when they run their hands over it and Miroslava giggles while the girl smiles at her lovingly. "Will that be all?", the man who sells the fabrics asks and looks at the girl, at _lille havfrue_ , at _malá mořská víla_ , at the little mermaid, who never speaks, who is as mute and as beautiful as the day they are said to have arrived.

"There are no mermaids", the elders say. "And even if she was one, the king of all seas would have destroyed our town for daring to look a mermaid in the eye, for touching her." She is not a mermaid, she cannot be. Still, there are tales. There was a little mermaid once, with the most beautiful voice. She loved a human and traded her voice, traded herself for a chance to be with him. But the human did not see her and in her grief, she threw herself into the sea that was no longer her home and turned into sea foam, as if the sea took back a child long lost.

"That's why she stares at the water", they say.  
"That's why she only touches it when the sun goes down", they say.  
"A mermaid is not made for our world and her feet bleed with every step she takes", they say.  
"Then why would she dance?", one asks. They do not know an answer.

And dance, she does. Like floating, like she is born to dance until the ends of the earth, like swimming. Friedrich dances with her, hands always brushing but never touching. Miroslava plays the flute, plays the piano, plays the guitar, eyes closed, humming along with her own play. They never falter, never stop, until the last tune is gone, until Miroslava bows and Friedrich touches their darling, hands loose on her hips, lips close to her ears. The girl laughs, soundless, mute, beautiful and _other_.

There was a man, once, who found her so beautiful he wanted to take her for himself, wanted to take her curls and her eyes and her smile and her unearthly beauty and swallow her whole. He bragged about it, a mug of beer in his hand, told them how he would take her, how Friedrich was nothing but a greedy boy who made his mistress smile at his wife. He took off, an odd quality to his steps, and, after that night, was never seen again. Some say, _malá mořská víla_ used her voice that night, some say she called upon the king of all seas for help, some say she conjured the storm that destroyed half the village that night, some say she smiled at him, the private not-quite smile that looks more like a bearing of teeth, a threat, and drowned him. Some say he was just a stupid man who went out into a storm in the middle of the night, drunk, that it was an accident.

"Do you know what happened to him?", one asked, not many years later. "Was he ever here?" Friedrich puts a hand on the mermaid's shoulder and pulls her close. "It isn't wise to go out in a storm", he says, looking at the sea. "I almost drowned some time ago because I believed myself stronger than the weather." The mermaid looks at him, brows furrowed, her hand around one of the three stones on the necklace, the red one, and when they leave, they hear him talk to her in a soft voice. "De frygter at havet, smukke lille havfrue", he says and kisses her. "Like you are of them. Tomorrow, we will dye your hair again."

There was a prince once, people say. And he was kind and gentle. He married a princess and kept a mistress. But the princess, the queen, was accepting of the mistress and spoke fondly of her in all correspondence. _Má drahá_ , she wrote, _má malá mořská víla_. And when they died, in the same year, when all that remained was words, people would whisper to each other about a _lille havfrue_ who brought wealth wherever she went, who could calm storms and who walked amongst humans while still being other, while missing her father who rules the sea.

They look happy, content, as they sit at the edge of the sea, the mermaid's head on Miroslava's shoulder, her hand in Friedrich's and watch the sun rise, every morning. And sometimes, if it is quiet enough, you can hear the cliffs sing, about three stones, joint together, three stones that will soon be one.

mine elskede pigers – my beloved girls, Danish  
drahá – darling, Czech  
lille havfrue – little mermaid, Danish  
malá mořská víla – little mermaid, Czech  
De frygter at havet, smukke lille havfrue – They are afraid of the sea, pretty little mermaid


End file.
